


Potential Energy

by Myalpha



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:31:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myalpha/pseuds/Myalpha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of how Steve Rogers became a hero, fell in love with Tony Stark, and met a living statue, but not necessarily in that order. (Basically I watched The Angels Take Manhattan one too many times and got IDEAS).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Potential Energy

21 March, 2010

Steve steeled himself as he walked into the stark hospital ward. The floors were cheap linoleum, the walls a sickly shade of yellow, and he smell of disinfectant and chemicals assaulted his nose. He hated hospitals, hated the fact that his childhood gravitated around his admission to them, hated what they had become to him now. Coughs, beeps and buzzing of the hospital filled his ears, overwhelming him in a way that could not be described as physical. It never got any easier, seeing his mother in a place like this. Well, at least not one of the patients, considering she did used to be a nurse, before all this. He made his way through the ward to her bed with the confidence of long experience. Not that his familiarity with the place helped ease the pain.

Every time he visited took him by surprise. Sarah Rogers, the larger-than-life, enthusiastic woman who'd raised him singlehandedly, looking so weak and frail – dependant on an oxygen mask just to stay alive. Her fine blonde hair hung limp and lifeless around her pale face, dark rings under her eyes making it abundantly clear just how much of a toll her body was taking. Steve wasn't sure whether it was the hospital bed that looked too big or his mother who looked too small, but either way seeing her like that made his heart wrench in a way that all the bullying, hardship and illness he'd experienced could not equal.

Taking a seat beside her, he gently pushed back a lock of hair from her forehead, and cradled her hand in his.

“Steve,” she rasped happily. “How was your day?”

“It was good, Mama. I didn't even get into any trouble with other the kids.”  
“That's good,” she said, a faint smile upon her lips. They talked, for a while, about his school; the classes he had and what he learned. Reassuring, ordinary, every-day family things.

Eventually the conversation turned to more serious topics. Sarah stroked his hand softly, as if to reassure herself of his presence. “You still want to be a soldier like your father. Don't you?” she asked.

Steve gave a cheeky smile, “Or a superhero, like Iron Man.”

Her eyes danced with amusement, “What about Captain America?”

“He's cool and all, but all he has is a boring shield. Iron Man has a suit of armour!”

She laughed again. “Well you always have been one for standing up to bullies. Either way, I'd imagine thats what he would want. You and him. Acorn and tree...” a cough broke up her speech. Studying her face, he could see the hint of sorrow in her eyes, even after all this time. His father had died in the Bosnian War, when he was only just a baby, and even after all this time his mother's pain was still there.

“Once he got an idea lodged in his head, there was no shaking it either.” She continued, “Whatever you dream, you can be, but you're gonna have to fight for it.”

Steve nodded in agreement, and squeezed her hand to reassure her that he was still listening.

“People are going to spend your whole life taking one look at your body and telling you what you can't do. But they can't see like I do. It holds a heart ten times its size.”

She drew his hand up, over her heart.

“You've got no quit in you.” She told him fondly, “Just promise me you'll use your head too. There's a fine line between fearless and foolhardy... Took your father from us way too soon.”

“I promise, Mama. I'll be careful”.

They both fell silent after that. After a while, Steve fetched a book – A Picture of Dorian Grey - from his satchel, and began to read out loud to her, in soft, soothing tones. They remained like that for hours, with hands entwined as the world ebbed and gave way to fantasy.

\- - -

By the time visiting hours were over, and Steve had been forced to leave, the sun had sunken and the sky was dimming. He was half way home when the rain came out of nowhere, turning the sky the already-dim sky almost as black in a matter of minutes. The gutters had become tiny rivers, and the whole world looked like the inside of a raincloud. Raindrops pounded heavily all around, falling in such heavy drops that he was soaked through in a matter of seconds. His shoes made a squelching sound when he walked. He'd always hated that feeling, soggy socks and squelchy wet shoes. 

He should have brought an umbrella with him, he realised. He was a small, sickly child even at fourteen. and particularly skilled at catching rather dramatic illnesses with alarming regularity. Even so, he never remembered things like umbrellas when it was actually necessary. And now, thanks to the blinding rain, he couldn't even listen to his StarkPod, for fear of the rain damaging it. The music player, which he received last Christmas, was his most prized possession – he knew his mom would have had to save for months just to afford it. He'd felt awfully guilty at first, they were very expensive, but she'd been so pleased to see him happy that he realised it would be disrespectful to feel bad about the gift. While he was pretty sure the rain wouldn't damage it, it was just too precious to him to risk getting it wet.

Steve hadn't meant to stay out so late, but since his mom was admitted to hospital, he had no real reason to get home. He'd rather be sitting with her in the hospital. He'd go there straight after school let out, and sit there for as long as visiting hours permitting. They'd talk, or read, or when she was feeling slightly worse, just sit in amicable silence. It had been just him and his mom since his dad died, living together in a small apartment in Brooklyn. He knew it was hard on his mom, with her having to work full-time to support the two of them, and try to care for a sickly kid to boot.

And then two years ago she'd gotten sick. The doctors said it was Ideopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis, a form of lung disease, and that most people only lived three to five years after diagnosis. Steve didn't know what to do, what to feel. His mom was the only person he had – no other family, no real friends. But at first, not much seemed to change. It gave him hope. She'd been relatively well, able to keep up with her job and the housework. She'd even tried walking more, being active, to try to maintain her strength and lung function. 

But eventually she was able to get out less and less, relying on a wheelchair to get around more often. And then she got much worse, ending up being hospitalised so she could get the care she needed. Steve felt lonelier than he'd ever felt in his life before. He'd taken over the care of the house, but money was tight now that Sarah was unable to work, and there were hospital bills besides. They were lucky the health insurance was covering the medical bills, but it remained an awfully large responsibility for a fourteen year old to shoulder.

And so Steve found himself spending all the time he could at the hospital, with the rest of it divided between school and maintaining the house. He'd even taken on a paper route, to try to earn a little extra cash, which he rushed to before school.

No matter how busy he was, however, he should have known better to walk past the cemetery on Tilden Ave in the rain at night. Not that he was scared, of course he wasn't scared. He was far too old to be scared by things like ghosts and ghouls and a little bit of darkness. But his mother had warned him not to, warned him that such places could be dangerous late at night. He'd promised her to go the long way around to avoid it, whenever possible, and he always tried to listen to his mother.

Steve should have listened to her. As it was, he didn't realise what a terrible mistake he'd made until he peered through the rain towards the main cemetery gates. There was a statue, right in the very centre of the gates. A statue of a young woman, with coiled hair, wearing a flowing robe. Looking closer through the rain, he could see it had two wings. An angel then. He blinked in disbelief. That couldn't be right, how could there be a statue right in the middle of the path, in the middle of the gates even. Steve shook his head, as if to shake the confusion from his brain, and concentrated on leaping over a rather large puddle that had formed on the pavement. 

For some reason, he looked back towards the cemetery entrance. Steve couldn't be sure, but hadn't the statue of the angel been holding its head in its hands? Because now it was looking straight at him, blank pupil-less eyes seeming to bore right through him. He blinked again, and the angel had definitely moved this time – it was far closer to him now, and had its mouth opened as if to speak, or scream. The time for questions was over, he decided. He turned and started to run, as fast as his weak legs and asthmatic lungs could carry him. Sneaking a look back over his shoulder, the angel was only two metres away now, filling his view, looming over him. Its arms outstretched as if to snatch him away. Its expression had changed to a snarl of hunger, its lips drawn back to reveal rows of fangs, like those of a bat.

It couldn't be possible, Steve thought. It couldn't be moving. Stone statutes didn't move. It was his tired mind playing tricks on him, or the stress of the past few months making him hallucinate. It wasn't moving. It couldn't be moving. Could it?

Fear settled in his stomach, like a lead weight. His panicked mind weighing up the options. Dare he look away again? It certainly wasn't moving when he was looking at it... maybe it wasn't even really moving at all. But there was something in the statutes' snarling, hungry expression that made him loath to discover what would happen if he was wrong – a sense of primal fear. He stared at the immobile statue, afraid to look away, afraid to blink even. 

But it couldn't last. He was only human, and his eyes were prickling. His eyes closed. Distantly, he thought he heard a sound like keys scraping over a piano wire and someone shouting. 

When he opened his eyes again, milliseconds later, he was somewhere else entirely.

\- - -

21 March, 1931

Quite literally in the blink of an eye, Steve Rogers found himself in the middle of Central Park, New York City. At least, he was pretty sure it was Central Park. But now it was sunny where a few seconds ago it was dark, and the skyline looked odd. Stark Tower was gone... well, most of the skyscrapers were missing – and wow, that couldn't be right.

He scanned the surrounding area, noticing that everything looked far, far older. The benches, the lighting, the few people he spotted – all looked straight out of a museum.

“Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore,” he muttered under his breath.

Suddenly, it occurred to him that he might look slightly out of place. Evaluating his plain t-shirt and jeans, tennis shoes and the leather satchel slung over his shoulders, he'd had never been more grateful for the stagnancy of men's fashion in recent history. Sure, his jeans looked embarrassingly low class, and his plain t-shirt probably looked like he was waltzing around in underwear, but if he was a girl wearing the same thing he'd no doubt be on the receiving end of more than just curious looks. Evaluating his footwear, he decided his plain white tennis shoes would probably be alright as well.

He'd never been more grateful that his mother had insisted on a satchel instead of a backpack for school, because he was sure a backpack would get him noticed pretty quick. I mean, they probably didn't even have plastic zippers, dammit.

But none of this was even a problem, really, compared to the worst of it.

The worst of it came later, when he discovered (after asking several strange questions of a rather baffled-looking shop attendant who clearly thought he was crazy) that it was 1931. The Great Depression had just set in, and he'd obviously been sent back in time somehow. Boy, was he trying not to think about the logistics of that part – time travel made his head spin even in movies. Plus he had no real clue how it even happened to begin with.

So there he was, a sickly kid, lost and alone during one of the most poverty-striken times in modern history. Steve didn't have to be a genius to know that his odds weren't good.

Someone must have been looking out for him though, some benevolent God or good karma or something, because he end up in an orphanage at least. It was meagre, and harsh, and the other kids bullied him at every opportunity, but Steve figured it was a damn sight better than living on the streets. He still had his StarkPod, and his Oscar Wilde novel, and his school books in his battered satchel, hidden away safely underneath his mattress. Memories of all he had lost. 

He took his music player out some nights, when he was grief-stricken and alone. Hiding under the blankets of his bed, he'd slip the earbuds in, and lose himself in the music just for a minute. No more than a minute, mind you – there was no way to charge the battery, and he wasn't sure he could handle losing the one good thing he had left.

\- - -

Weeks passed, lonely and harsh but alive nonetheless. He'd discovered that there was next to no chance of getting home, not that he really needed much conformation on that fact, it was pretty much evident from the start. So he focused on making do, settling getting to know this strange new place. 

Things were slow to change though. He remained alone, for one thing. Turns out kids were just as scornful of the weak runt as they were before, if not more so. Until things changed suddenly one day he ended up in a fight.

To be fair, there was nothing unusual about Steve Rogers getting into fights. Even back in the twenty-first century, he got in his share of fights, and that was before there were kids living rough on the streets who were desperate for even a penny. Steve understood their plight, he really did. But he hated bullies more.

He was cornered by three older kids in an alley in Hell's Kitchen, who were insisting he pay them money for the privilege of crossing into 'their' territory. Of course, Steve being Steve, refused to pay and the punches started flying.

“Not giving you a red cent,” Steve wheezed, steadying himself on a wall after staggering back from a punch.

“Lookit this runt,” one of the other boys guffawed, “too dumb to know he's beat”

“S'allright. I can spend all day proving' it if I have to.” the first boy snarled, swinging another punch, “Not like I got anything else better to do”.

Steve staggered back, and suddenly there was another kid beside him. Fists up and swinging at his assailant.

“I'll say” the new kid quips.

“Hey, why don't you mind your own business!” The bald thug this time.

“It is my business,” the new kid stated, “watching you shake down little kids every day is making me nauseous. He threw a second punch.

Steve didn't miss a beat. Temporarily forgotten in the commotion, he grabbed a trash can lid and brought it down with a crash over the head of the leader of the gang. The other two scrambled, clearly seeing they'd been beaten.

“Hah! Bullies always run true to form... and I do mean run” the kid laughed triumphantly.

“I woulda worn them down eventually,” Steve tells him.

“Yeah, when they died of old age!”

“Maybe you wanna go a round or two?” Steve queried defensively, bringing up his fists. He couldn't tell if this newcomer was a friend or just another enemy.

“Woah there cowboy! Holster those guns! I come in peace,” he grinned. “Never even occurred to me to stand up to those bums until I saw a shrimp like you do it. You're a real inspiration, you know that?”

Steve eyed him dubiously. He wasn't sure if this kid was serious, but at least it didn't sound like he was going to start a fight with him anytime soon. “Thanks, I guess.” he offered his hand, “Steve Rogers. Been in the orphanage on eighth since my mom passed”

Returning the handshake, the dark haired boy introduced himself as James Buchanan Barnes, and that his friends called him 'Bucky'.

They become friends almost instantly, and for the first time the feeling of grief he'd felt since arriving here, since losing his mother, lifted slightly. His heart felt lighter, somehow, and Steve felt like just maybe he'd be alright.

\- - -

It was 1945. Steve Rogers had lost track of the exact day, but it was definitely spring. That wasn't the important thing though. The important thing was that he was alone on a nazi plane, which was about to crash in the Arctic because crashing it was the only way to save the world.

The whole situation still seemed ridiculous to him, a lower-class kid from twenty-first century Brooklyn ending up as Captain America in World War II. But he couldn't have even dreamed this. He knew who Captain America was, of course, everyone did. Kids grew up learning about him in school, reading the comics and watching the TV shows... but being him? Nothing could have prepared him for that.

All he wanted was to join the army. Bucky was determined to join the Army, and all Steve ever wanted to do was protect the people he loved – the country he loved. He'd lost so much, all he wanted to do was hold on to something. So he tried to enlist, and was rejected. Undeterred, he tried again, and again, and again. It wasn't until his fifth time that he met Dr Erskine, and was told about the Strategic Scientific Reserve and the Super-Soldier project, and everything started making sense.

So he'd become Captain America, knowing what was to come. Knowing _this day_ would come. Knowing Bucky would fall from that train, and hoping desperately that he could prevent it anyway. Because he had to. Because it was the right thing to do, and if theres one thing Steve Rogers did, it was the right thing at the expense of all else. 

Maybe if he was honest for himself, he'd even admit that, just maybe, the fact that he dreamed of being a superhero might have influenced him just slightly. A hero like Iron Man, hell, who might have even inspired the Iron Man armour in some way. Iron Man, who was noble and heroic and wasn't afraid to stand up to anyone, who was so smart he built his own weaponised suit of armour in a cave with a box of scraps and was still unequalled.

So a hero Steve became, winning the war, saving the world. He was even going to get the girl, if he survived this. That was never going to happen though – he knew that before it all started. Regardless, it was his duty... nothing was free, and freedom came at a high price indeed. Doctor Erskine, Bucky, and now even Steve himself. Because he was never going to get out of this alive, promises to Peggy be damned. Captain America or no, nobody could survive a plane crash, at this speed, into the frigid waters of the Arctic. Steve would know better than anyone – he'd seen the future. His own future.

He took a deep breath and steeled his nerves. The aircraft hit the ice with a sickening bang, steel screaming around him as it was torn apart. Then there was water everywhere: in the plane, in his clothes, in his lungs. 

He closed his eyes, and dreamed of the people he'd lost, and of his two lives.

\- - -


End file.
